and he's forgotten his raincoat
by Distempered
Summary: he's left an impression on you, to say the least, with the way he's imprinted himself on you, in you.  Daphne and Zacharias have an...arrangement.  Written preDH, so no spoilers and fairly AU now.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the characters herein depicted. They belong to J.K. Rowling and no infringement is intended. The lack of capitalization is for stylistic purposes. Written pre-DH, so no spoilers and the story is AU.

* * *

**and he's forgotten his raincoat**

he's made an impression, to say the least. he makes you angry and contented at the same time with the way he's imprinted himself on you, in you. he's made more of an impression than that ugly black tattoo that mars your otherwise perfectly unblemished skin.

his skin cells are like sand, grainy and uncomfortable beneath your fingernails. you can feel them, no matter how many times you wash your hands, but you have no doubt that the angry red welts you've left on his back are more uncomfortable (more painful). especially when he has to go home and explain them, you think with childlike glee.

somehow, it's still always awkward when you get together. you try to pretend, for that brief opening moment when you first see him, that nothing's happened, but it has, and it's essentially useless trying to ignore it.

_((they tell you it's supposed to get easier with every summoning, but it never does. each time is just as agonizing as the last, if not more so, and while you are afraid of weakness, you are more afraid of pain. and it's _that _fear that keeps you awake at night.))_

he makes you so furious sometimes. when he shows up at three a.m. drenched and sullen because she kicked him out again and he's forgotten his raincoat, so you ask why he didn't just apparate, but he gives you that look (and you melt, melt, melt) like you're some kind of fool for asking and shoves past you into your flat because he knows you're going to let him in anyway. you stand there for a few moments seething, but he drags you away from the door, and you're fuming, but you're still removing your clothing, and you hate him, _hate him_, because he makes it seem so easy.

like he's doing you a favor.

you could kill him. you could easily just kill him the next time he shows up. you contemplate this every time he leaves in the morning. you remind yourself how dangerous it is for him and for you, and you reason that if he were dead then it wouldn't be dangerous anymore. you also tell yourself that he's a former hufflepuff and that no self-respecting slytherin would get in bed with a hufflepuff even if he were the last (prideful, arrogant, insensitive, deceitful, beautiful, _perfect_) man on earth. and most importantly, perhaps, you think that you are a death eater and that he is not one of you, and therefore, he is not worth your time or care. and yet, you always manage to find a reason not to go through with it.

it feels like there are a million little bugs crawling all over your skin when he touches you, and after he goes, you get into your shower and turn the water on scalding hot to try to burn away the fingerprints he's left, but it never works, so you're itchy and uncomfortable until he comes back to briefly soothe you before starting the whole process over again.

but you need that structure because without it, it feels as though you're running uphill for ever and forever, and you can't quite catch your breath or ease the pain in your calf muscles, so instead you just keep running faster and faster until you're dizzy and tired and unquestioning.

(or does he do that to you?)

and there is such an expansive rift between you. if you can see it, you know that he can see it too, but that doesn't stop you from trying to build a bridge to cross it. it is tiring, tireless work, but you are used to getting what you want, even if it takes a little work. isn't it why you became a death eater in the first place?

it doesn't matter. the point is, you have to fill the rift with something, and you are so scared of what that something is, but you do it anyway. you _love him_ anyway. not because you like to, or because you want to, but because you have to. you have to love him or you'll die.

and you definitely wonder if he causes the same feelings in her, and if she even has any fucking clue how lucky she is that he doesn't just up and leave her behind. (you'll laugh if that ever happens, and yet you'll cry knowing he could just as easily do it to you.) you're still surprised that he even stays, but he does stay -- hufflepuffs are disgustingly loyal -- no matter how many times she shuts him out or how many times you willingly open your arms.

_((it is always so cold there, so you ignore the way Zabini rubs up against you "for warmth." hell is not always a place of heat, you think, and if you can cling to that, maybe it won't be so bad anymore. maybe, maybe you'll actually be okay.))_

sometimes, you lie in bed with him indulging in fantastical thoughts of marriage and children, all the while pretending that the mark isn't there, and you have to wonder if it burns him to touch it, or if he even really notices it there. he never says anything, so you are forced to continue wondering because you are far too proud to ask. instead, you reach around and pull his arm across your body as you snuggle back against him, as if you are a real couple with nothing more to worry about than what color to paint the bedroom.

on those rare occasions when a night spent with him actually turns into another full day spent with him, you really start to ache because you wish you could turn the awkward silences into something more productive. you wish you could tell him that he should just leave her and stay with you, but you can't possibly bring yourself to say such things aloud, and anyway, why would he even want to stay with someone like you? he's respected, he's good and decent, he is _not like you_, except that he is far more like you than you'll ever let yourself know, and you're so stubborn that you won't ever, ever really know.

when he kisses you just right, you feel like you're flying.

but you hate the looks, those tacit glares he gives you when he thinks you aren't paying attention. and the one time that you catch him, you hate even more the smirk of satisfaction that replaces it. like you've caught him doing something wrong, but he doesn't care because he knows that you aren't going to do anything about it.

because you're so desperately weak, really. you can lie to yourself as much as you want, but he sees it and exploits it whenever he wants.

not, of course, that you always show it. there are times when your spitfire is still there, times when your baser instincts are allowed to surface, your ruthlessness to shine through, and you fight. he says horrible things and you say them back with equal intensity. it's ugly and mean -- cold, cruel even, but what hurts you the most is that the hatred is real on his part. (not on yours, oh god, _never_ on yours.)

so sometimes you sit alone in the middle of your bed, knees drawn up and hugged tightly against your chest, whispering to the darkness that you wish he would just stop fighting you. but for that to happen, you need to stop fighting yourself first.

and that's something that you know will never be.

_((your lord has given you a mission, and it's simple enough, but what makes it doable is the notion that you have something good waiting for you when you get home. except you don't know if that's true or not. it depends on if it's three a.m. and raining and if she's thrown him out again, and if he's forgotten his raincoat._

_and he hasn't forgotten this time.))_


End file.
